


Younglings.

by skinnylittlered



Category: British Actor RPF, Real Person Fiction, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Affairs, Erotica, Extramarital Affairs, F/M, Mild Smut, Older Characters, Older Woman, Older Woman/Younger Man, Original Character-centric, POV Original Character, POV Original Female Character, POV Third Person, POV Third Person Limited, Porn, Porn With Plot, Satire, Sex, Sexual Content, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-10
Updated: 2015-11-10
Packaged: 2018-04-30 23:47:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5184296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skinnylittlered/pseuds/skinnylittlered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lorelei doesn’t like the boy, but that won’t stop her from fucking him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Younglings.

He’s a bit of a pretentious son of a bitch, the man. 

He practises his intellect condescendingly, at times inaccurately and unfittingly, and the masses buy it because they’re imbecilic at best. It’s all a part – and a great part nonetheless – of a minutely crafted image that, despite the initial awareness (which is, after all, what prompted the creation of such a persona in the first place), even he himself has started believing. But she is an old woman, she has experience. She has talked to people, exchanged impressions and ideas, she has undergone the pains of all initiative rituals there are, she has constructed and deconstructed, again and again, personalities of her own, to serve her in attaining the good graces of some, physical goods from others, jobs, status, sex. Lorelei doesn’t buy into the bullshit that the Tom Hiddleston brand is advertised to be because, to Lorelei, Tom Hiddleston is but a mere child looking for the approval of the grownups around him, herself included.

Naturally, this particular mannerism that the boy exhibits, distressingly incongruent with the insecurity he exudes when in a room with people who can’t be bothered to give two shits about anything Hollywood related, hardly elicits feelings remotely close to warm from her,  _au contraire_ , being reason enough for deeply rooted apathy for him, despite his efforts providing, at times, a feasible means of intrinsic entertainment, which may distract her, albeit for a short while, from the intransigent disgust he generally prompts within the depths of her superior stratum of cognition. She does, however, consider the other side of the matter (the matter being the unusual volume of involvement she expends into the sheer not liking of the brit, for she usually does not invest herself to such an extent into affairs so trivial such as holding such a low regard for somebody with impact this little in her existence as he has proved to have in the last few weeks she has personally known him, weeks during which her harsh assumptions of his character were proved to be as accurate as one’s assumptions of a person they have only very little,  _infirmly little_ , to do with can possibly be) which is fairly scary, now that she actually takes the time to consider it for more than she would a fleeting thought.

Lorelei believes that her unreasonable anger is fuelled by something larger than her altogether present being, larger than her universe of pre-programmed aware responses to the outside world, something so profound in its nature it has been, so far, deemed intangible by the world’s greatest thinkers, scientists and philosophers altogether – the human subconscious. Trying to rationalise this hypothesis of hers does of course transpose the fact in itself into the realm of conscious thinking, but the issue at hand is, undoubtedly, more ample than the idea that has been haunting the circumvolutions of her brain for more than a couple of days, and that being the fact that Lorelei believes, may god help her, that, as abominably clichéd as it may sound, that she’s somehow projecting her thirty four year old self into the person of the thirty four year old handsome actor sporting an Armani suit and a british accent all at the same time.

It must be that hell has frozen over.

***

Tolerance, to the modern, conference-holding world is a form of acceptation of one’s shortcomings and differences. Such vulgar spiritual descendancy does not even come across the woman’s mind, not even as the couture silk is removed from her skin, leaving her but in her just as high end lingerie, a black number with soft, crème trimmings, corset, of course, because she’s approaching sixty and no amount of hours spent in the gym or mystery concoctions marketed as wondrous can refrain her body from looking anything but it’s age, fuck whatever Madonna or Kim Cattrall may have to say on the topic – she’s old, she may as well learn how to deal with it.

She does not tolerate Tom Hiddleston, she’s just going to fuck him.

Her husband will surely not mind; the last time she saw him, he was too busy ogling some sweet little, half-witted youngling with designer breasts to notice she was slipping outside the reception hall with her own sweet little, half-witted youngling. Their marriage is one based on respect and trust. Respect that their carnal desires no longer included the other, and trust that they  _will_  fuck extra-conjugally if given the opportunity to. And that is why, as there’s always Viagra in his pockets, she always carries lube around (menopause will do that to a vagina), especially at events such as these, when the top of the industry gathers to celebrate their sickening wealth and influence, to compare sports cars and sexual appendages.

The Ritz always keeps a number of vacant rooms, especially for situations such as these, even during Oscar week.

The boy has done this before. Fuck a senior, that is. She can tell by the languid movement of his hips, careful, knowing that should he hastily go at it his partner would not only be left unsatisfied, but in pain, also. She internally giggles at the feverish tremor in his arms, as his hands grip her hips, taking her from behind, that it is borderline torturous for him to try and keep the pace steady, when all he wants to do is ungraciously hump her, as a dog would a bitch, and revel in his release. Kids these days have no tact whatsoever. Still, she does enjoy it. The rhythm is moderate, and his cock is long and thick, copiously stretching her. But she does not squeal anymore, there’s no cuteness to the act. Her moans are maturated, grave – she does not vocalise due to the good fucking, she does in approval of it. Her job, at this stage in her life, is to coach, to appreciate, to shape, not to be in awe. Lorelei has fucked, in her life, enough to know the value of good dick. To know what makes it good, to evaluate, to point in the right direction, and as she’s being thrust into, Lorelei knows that choosing Tom Hiddleston has been the exact right direction she needed.

**Author's Note:**

> I was suppose to go on hiatus. Fuck, I was convinced I would do it, then Monday midnight drew close and I got a plot bunny and scribbled this.
> 
> I’m just hopeless.
> 
> So An exercise. did well. My friend (she pseudo beta-reads for me) smashed a keyboard on my head, it was that self-inserted. The dialogue especially. That dialogue is me from beginning to end. I am that adorable in real life *chuckles*
> 
> Also, got a shitton of new followers: @lex-luthors-toothbrush, @writerpassionlove, @dianaartvanity, @rebecca-thatfangirl, @dreamoctober, @tomnotloki, @shiverofthestars, @angelraven33, aaaaaand @loricameback. Holy motherfucking shit, you guys, this is unbelievable.
> 
> Promised @antyc67 there will be more chocolate.
> 
> *pours chocolate syrup onto chocolate soufflé*
> 
> Anybody else?
> 
> Thank you for reading, lovelies, and you stay golden! *places multiple soufflés on table for you to feast on*


End file.
